One Last Night
by Tazz Dieudonne
Summary: Sherlock/Moriarty one-shot. Sherlock and Moriarty have been meeting in secret for a month now but it all comes to and end tonight. Rated M for sex.


Authors note- I don't own Moriarty or Sherlock, unfortunately. Reviews are always welcome and highly appreciated. And a huge thanks to my beta for making this readable! Enjoy!

One Last Night

Sherlock slumped down onto the comfortable sofa. Where the _hell_ was he? Moriarty had messaged him a hour ago, so where was he? Maybe the bastard intended to leave him hanging. _Again_. It wouldn't be the first time that Moriarty had disappointed him, but he always made up for it in more ways than one. Sometimes the apologies came in the way of a new case, and then sometimes they were more...interesting.

Silence hung in the air of the small flat, one of the many Jim owned. They met here often now in secret. Sherlock shook his head not wanting to think about why he kept coming back here over and over again. Of course the adrenaline and endorphins that clouded his brain during their sexual encounters were certainly exotic, but a part of him knew that it was more than sex. He now understood John's endless search for a partner a little better. The combination of sex and a some form of stability drove his friend to try and find someone to share a life with. He could never have that with Moriarty, Sherlock reminded himself. No matter how tempting his brain would never let him forget for a instant how dangerous Moriarty was. It would be over soon, he reminded himself, so why even bother? This was the last night he and Jim had together. Tomorrow, when back to being Holmes and Moriarty, archenemies.

The criminal was now creeping up the stairs. He knew them by heart now and could easily have avoided the creaky step that announced his presence, but he never did. Old habits die hard, he supposed. They always met in the same place despite both of them knowing better. Both had been in this business long enough to know that the worst way to keep a secret was to have a pattern. Moriarty had had many secret lovers in his life, although none as thrilling as his dear detective, all of which he had never met in the same place. Sherlock was different; they were playing with danger, and it was the only thing they knew how to do.

"Have you enjoyed my latest game?" Moriarty stepped into the dimly lit room. A smile crept across his face at the sight of Sherlock curled up on the couch looking pissed as hell.

"Too predictable. At least find someone with a sense of creativity." Sherlock didn't bother to turn and look at Moriarty. The criminal was _late_,and his latest attempt to throw someone interesting at the detective had failed. Moriarty knew that his pet wasn't genuinely upset, he could see right through Sherlock's mask.

"Oh, have I disappointed you again?"

"Yes, very, _dear." _Sherlock put emphasis on the fake endearment._ "_The lunatic couldn't even bother to change his methods – way too easy to catch._" _Sherlock sneered. A cokd smile curled across Moriarty's lips.

"Well, _however_ should I make up for that?" Jim drawled. Coming up behind Sherlock, he ran his fingers along the broad shoulders, making the detective shiver under his touch with anticipation.

"This is the last time." Sherlock stated, finally turning to see Jim. The criminal sat down on the arm of the sofa, his hand traveling over the expensive material.

"Such a waste."

"You're not listening to me."

"I don't want to hear it." He said flatly, suddenly very cold. "You've said the same thing over and over again. Do you really think I'll believe you this time?"

It was true. Almost every single time they met here, Sherlock had mentioned something about not coming back, but every time Moriarty called he showed up. Soon Moriarty ignored the detectives protests all together.

"You can read me better than anyone else. You know this one is real." Sherlock's cold, determined eyes met Moriarty's. He saw a flash of sadness, and then Moriarty's mask was back. Jim knew that Sherlock was serious but he didn't want to believe it.

"Oh, Sherlock, you underestimate the power of the brain to overlook details it does not want to see."

"We are beyond that. We are more intelligent, enough so that the power of will over rides the brains little tricks. " Sherlock scoffed.

"Are we?" Moriarty was suddenly on top of Sherlock, pinning his slender wrist to the opposite chair arm. "Neither of us are above...primal instincts. Why else would we be here?"

"So that is all I am to you," Sherlock spat. Moriarty smiled knowing this was just party of Sherlock holding out on him as long as he could. The detective always gave in in the end.

"Dear, are you surprised? You thought you were more? Is that why you came back again and again?"

Sherlock refused to meet his stare, not wanting Moriarty to read his face for fear of what he might find.

_Jim knows there's more he'll just never say it_, Sherlock told himself.

"One last night Jim. That's all." A slight disappointment crossed Moriarty's eyes.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"You pretend about a lot of things, don't you?"

"Well in my line of work..." Jim trailed, crooked smile still in place. Sherlock stared back. He tried to decipher the man on top of him, but he couldn't read anything. Slowly, their faces came closer and closer.

The kiss was soft, and it was so different from any other kiss they had every shared, that Sherlock knew that the other man had realized that this was truly the last time. No matter what happened tomorrow they would never meet here again.

Moriarty was the one to pull away, odd considering usually he was the one wanting more and having no qualms about taking it. It had taken Sherlock a while, but eventually he came to see that as a compliment. The criminal wanted Sherlock, and he was going to get him at all costs, regardless of the usual worriers, like Sherlock's feelings. And in some twisted way the psychopath expected him to be thankful for it, or at least pleased that he spent so much energy on him.

"Take it off." Moriarty ordered, breaking the almost tender moment. Sherlock sighed and reached for the buttons of his purple shirt, Jim's favorite.

"No." Jim said, and it was almost soft. _Almost_. "Mine."

His breath hitched. Moriarty never let Sherlock undress him. He always tore them off in seconds, before Sherlock even had a chance. Taking this rare opportunity, Sherlock slowly slid his hands up the taunt torso, feeling every muscle and bone underneath the thin dress shirt. Jim sighed, pressing himself into Sherlock's firm hands. When he reached the exposed skin at the top nimble fingers brushed against the tender flesh. Another soft noise escaped Moriarty's perfect, wet lips. Sherlock sealed them with his own, as he slowly, tauntingly, undid each individual button on Moriarty's shirt. Taking his time and teasing all the way down.

Jim's breathing quickened with every button, but Sherlock refused go any faster. The skinny man on top of him slowly started to grind his hips, trying to encourage Sherlock to move, but his lips remained fervently sealed on Sherlock's, exploring already familiar territory. Their matching needs ground against each other, and Moriarty groaned.

Suddenly, Sherlock laid his cold palms right below Moriarty's ribs, his tender spot. The moan that came from the other man's lips was worth the wait. Moriarty's breathy moans felt hot against his lips. As Sherlock prodded and rubbed in all of his favorite spots, Moriarty slowly moved above him, waiting for him to go lower.

Only when the man above him was a shaking hot mess, did Sherlock finally bring his hands lower, clutching at the perfect arse. Moriarty shuddered above him, his arms nearly giving out from the shocks to his oversensitive body.

The soft flesh under Jim's collarbone broke easily under his teeth, drawing blood at the first try, and making the man above him yelp.

"Claiming your territory, Sherlock?" Jim remarked breathlessly.

"You'll get your turn soon." Sherlock promised.

"I'll hold you to that." Moriarty warned. Then he moaned deeply, as Sherlock's hands worked at the soft flesh of Moriarty's hips, but his hands made no move to free the man's bursting erection.

"Please." He whined.

"Begging isn't going to work." Sherlock commented smugly.

"Tease like you deserve to be punished." Jim suddenly pinned Sherlock's hands again and attacked his neck. The detective's breath caught in his throat, as Jim went about _marking _him. There was some satisfaction in the thought that those marks would be there for days to come. Moriarty lowered himself onto Sherlock, grinding into him painfully now.

He used his teeth, biting and bruising. Then he brought one hand in to play, the other still keeping Sherlock pinned. Finger tips making impressions – little slices of the moon, as Jim referred to them. Some bruised, some cut, some hurt, while others just barely grazed the skin, sending shivers of anticipation throughout Sherlock's body.

Moriarty, quickly tired of the foreplay, released Sherlock to tear open his shirt, ripping off the buttons just newly sewn on. Greedy hands ran their way all over Sherlock's torso, feeling the hard muscles. Moriarty's touch was nowhere near as soft as Sherlock's, as he mouthed and bit his way though Sherlock's upper body. Moriarty loved to make the detective shutter and moan with his rough touch. Soon Sherlock was practically writhing underneath the criminal with want.

Jim smiled again. Sherlock arched, pressing them closer, as if trying to cover every inch of his skin with Jim. They gasped in unions, as the friction of their jeans rubbed painfully on their growing erections.

"For a last time, you batter make this a good one." Sherlock grinned as Moriarty's hands fumbled for his belt buckle, finally needing to free himself. Jim slapped his hard across the jaw line in warning. Then he kissed Sherlock, biting at the already split flesh.

"Oh, don't worry, my love – you won't be able to even _move _when I'm done with you let alone think."

They both finished quickly, thanks to the build up. Sherlock was almost sad that it was over so soon. The detective made a move to get up, but Moriarty's hands dragged him back down. They both went crashing to the floor. "Where do you think you're going? I haven't even got started."

Satisfied but guilty as hell, they collapsed back on to the bed. Sweat and cum coated them, and the smell of sex hung in the air. Moriarty had fucked him so many times, and he had fucked Moriarty so many times, that they had lost count. They had made use of every surface: the table, the sofa, the floor, and finally ended up in the bed. The room was destroyed, table having broken when Moriarty bent him over it and rode him hard and fast. In the end, they finished together and lay there staring at the ceiling, each in their own thoughts. Then Jim moved closer to Sherlock. He lay his head on the man's firm chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. His nimble fingers traced the marks that littered the detective's body, some still bleeding, with pride.

"Goodbye." Moriarty whispered in his ear, before sneaking out of the flat. Sherlock buried his head in the sheets, smelling the last traces of the criminal. "My love," Jim added, as if an afterthought, and then he was gone. Truly gone.

His foot hit the stair that creaked, and the airy sound echoed through the empty hall. Sherlock paused, as if expecting to hear someone on the other side of the door, but no sound reached his ears. Slowly, he approached the door, and then he pushed it open. The room was empty, so why would there be anyone there? Sherlock had promised that he would never return here ever again. He was going to bury the times he had shared with Moriarty, so that he never had to figure out why he kept coming back. But everything had changed that day.

Jim Moriarty was dead. Gone. Something Sherlock had never calculated. Something he never saw coming. Numbness claimed him. Numbness because he didn't want the feelings tugging at his heart. Why? Why had Jim gone and did what he did? Sherlock was prepared to disappear – to die in the public's eyes. He knew that was what Jim wanted, and Jim always got what he wanted. The proof was right here, because in the end, Sherlock was the one left with the chore of living. Moriarty had escaped; he had left it all behind. He was able to go all out. He was able to play the game to the very end.

That's why he won. Maybe they could match each other intellect wise, but what it came down to was determination. Everything had gone according to plan, because Moriarty's life was never a factor he had to consider. All he had to do was stay alive long enough to make sure that Sherlock would die. He was able to separate himself from what happened in this room, but Sherlock was not. He was able to shag Sherlock with such passion and then try to kill him, with equal amounts of passion.

Sherlock slumped down on the bed. The mingled smell of him and Jim enveloped him. Everything they had done in this room had been so separate from the game. It was like a time out. They were no longer enemies prepared to die in the name of besting the other. So what where they? Not lovers, but more than a simple fuck. Either of them could have found someone just as good, if not better, to shag; there where millions of options. Instead, they had flirted with danger and insanity to be with each other. Is that why he kept coming back? The danger that one day Jim would get tired of it and just blow his head off? The anticipation that one day he would find out that this was all just another part of the game?

Sherlock turned over, almost expecting to see Jim there. Empty air hung next to him, as a small tear ran down his cheek. If they weren't the world's most dangerous criminal and the world's only consulting detective. If one they had been on the same side. If, if, if... So many questions and not enough data to even begin to answer them. Not that it mattered any more. They were merely fantasies now. So human and so very boring, and yet he could not help himself.

In this room, they could be something different. Only in this room could they exist and not try to kill each other. But there was the problem: Moriarty had no trouble whatsoever, so it seemed, separating his 'feelings', or whatever that man had felt, for Sherlock and The Work. He could fuck him senseless and then, with the same determination and pleasure, plot to kill him the next day. Such a thick line that the other man had drawn to keep himself separate, but somewhere along the way, that line had blurred for Sherlock.

At the very end, he couldn't go after the criminal without an escape. He wanted them to keep going and never end. Sherlock went up to that rooftop still thinking of Jim as the man he had shared this room with, rather than the man trying to destroy him. Maybe Moriarty was both, or maybe he was just a psychopath who had toyed with Sherlock this whole time, in the name of phycological warfare. Maybe he was acting every time he stepped in here, but somehow Sherlock didn't think so.

What was the point dwelling on it? Now Sherlock would never know. All he would ever know was that he, Sherlock Holmes, had felt something for Jim, whether it was for Moriarty, or the persona he put on, or that other side of him that no one else knew. He would never know what was true and what was fake.

The only thing that was completely certain was that Jim Moriarty was dead, and there was no way he could come back. Still, the consulting detective waited until the sun went down. Waiting for the sound of that step creaking and Jim's cool voice there to greet him. The snide comments to be thrown his way, or the seductive laugh that came out of nowhere.

Jim never came, unsurprisingly, and Sherlock left in the morning, leaving everything behind, just like the dead man he had…loved?


End file.
